Learn to Close The Wound
by TolkienGirl
Summary: Part 1 of my Stitches series. "Sammy's thirteen the first time he needs stitches, and he does them himself. Some years later, when Dean's facing down an empty bottle of Jack, he thinks it's high on the list of things he'll never forgive himself for." Hurt!Everybody (John, Dean, Sam) Rated for mild language and depiction of some injury/blood. NO SLASH.


**A/N: Ok, so I'm on the fourth day of being kind of nastily sick, and what better to cheer myself with than angst? This series is pretty dark, with some Neglectful!John and and a big helping of Self-hating!Dean. Also everybody's pretty much hurt. Always. Aside from this piece, there isn't much comfort either.**

**Sorry/not sorry (devilish grin-yes, ok, I like writing angst)**

**Disclaimer: If I owned them, I would hug them. Alas, I do not.**

Sammy's thirteen the first time he needs stitches, and he does them himself.

Some years later, when Dean's facing down an empty bottle of Jack, he thinks it's high on the list of things he'll never forgive himself for.

(That bottle was full when he started pulling the list together.)

Sammy's thirteen, white-faced and wildeyed, stretched stiff on the sagging motel bed with his back arched in agony and a gaping four inch slice across his stomach.

(He's the best off of any of them.)

Dad's slumped unconscious on the other bed, battered and bruised and definitely concussed. Two, maybe three ribs cracked.

And Dean—Dean's got one hand gone to hell, two fingers broken and the pain is so much it almost makes him laugh (hurt's gone to the far side of crazy). His other hand is knotted up in Sammy's hair, smoothing the tangles and his voice is hoarse from shouting but he's still talking, "You can do this, Sammy, just _focus_, dammit." Dean's ribs are scraped raw on one side, bruised on the other and he's lucky he's got all his teeth, the way the thing's head hit him full in the mouth.

(These werewolves hunted in a pack.)

"Dean," Sam grits out, teeth clenched together, "Dean, I—I can't."

"It's too deep, bandage ain't gonna hold it." Dean gently moves his good hand from Sammy's hair and reaches for the kit, ribs protesting loudly (broken fingers, even louder, at the slightest jiggle).

Somewhere in the back of his mind Dean knows it's too much, they're all screwed and Sammy, Sammy of all of them shouldn't have to do this. _Thirteen_. Eighth grade, 'cept the little bugger's so damn smart he's in ninth already. _Thirteen_. Soccer. Awkward first dates. Scraped knees and pimples are the worst that should be happening.

Not this. _God, not this._

"Dude, you've seen me n' Dad do it a hundred times. It's gonna hurt like a bitch but it's worth it. I swear, Sammy. I swear to God. But you gotta do this."

Tears are leaking out of the corners of Sam's eyes, leaving shining trails on his ashen skin. "C-can't you do it, Dee?"

Pain blossoms up in Dean, a blur overlaying the broken bones and bleeding skin. _Dee_. Sammy hasn't called him that since he was five years old. Quick learner, didn't stumble or stutter much. Left behind childish ways as quick as he understood them for what they were. If Sammy's reverting back to the teary-eyed toddler—and Dean can see the entreating arms and scraped chubby knees (fresh from meeting the cruel pavement after a wobbly bike ride) in his mind clear as day—things are _bad_. And he wants more than anything to give in, stitch his brother up quickly, skillfully, not make his brother take a needle to his own torn flesh. But Dean can't. Can't because his right hand is beaten to crap and his left is clumsy, can't because sentimentality is a risk he won't take.

Not now. Not with Sammy.

"I'm sorry," he says, voice thick. He fumbles in the kit, finds the needle and thread, presses it into his brother's trembling fingers. "You know how to do it, right? You need me to walk you through it?"

A quick headshake, and Dean's shamefully grateful. He doesn't trust himself to give clear directions. Not when he's racked with guilt and cursing his left hand more than the werewolf who broke the fingers of his right.

"Just stay," Sam whispers, and Dean nods, leans forward, weaves his fingers back through Sam's sweat-dampened bangs.

The first stitch draws a cry from Sam, so sharp and raw that Dean turns his head sharply to dry-heave. He tastes bile and blood in his mouth, realizes only later that he bit his already mangled lip straight through.

Afterwards Sam coughs a few dry sobs into Dean's shoulder, too exhausted to muster any tears. Through his pain-bleary eyes, Dean sees Dad stir, groan, shift back into unconsciousness.

Part of him wishes he'd been the one unconscious. Most of him is grateful he's the one that wasn't.


End file.
